


The Boston Aftermath

by MonoclePony



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day after the Boston Massacre, when things hadn't exactly gone to plan, Haytham Kenway stands brooding on it, and the son he never knew he had...<br/>He also realises that his moral code, so entwined with Assassin and Templar order, is not shared by all he knows...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boston Aftermath

It was the day after the disaster.

Mail boys were still calling out the headlines of murder and massacre in their half-formed, broken voices, and the whole town of Boston reeled in a state of shock. It was meant to be market day, but no one had been brave enough to show up- those who had wandered down hopefully just sighed and wandered back again. Back to their meek homes, with shots still ringing in their ears and the cries of felled men to send shivers through their bodies. 

Even the snow outside the custom house on King Street had not forgotten it; the British had tried to clear the blood from outside, but they had merely churned up the snow and left it pink and defiant with the lifeblood of dead and dying men. The clouds were threatening to burst forth with new snow soon, though, and it would only be a matter of time before the blood was swept away, just as the British wanted. 

No one but the single private officer guarding the house had remained there. There had been some peasant children scurrying around in the snow like gophers trying to find the spent bullets to keep as souvenirs, but the cold had driven even them back into their alleys and corners, sneering at the wind. The only other figure was dark and cloaked, and stood a little way off from the scene, the wind snatching his cloak and making it billow away from him like a ship’s sail. The figure made no move at all, and stood surveying the territory silently. 

“Haytham.” 

The name jarred the figure from his thoughts, and he turned to seek out the voice. Haytham Kenway was feeling the cold, and he didn’t appreciate it. He drew his coat tighter about him and huffed. He hadn’t been in the country long- he had left the New World for fifteen long years before returning now. He had been away for too long, he mused, and though Boston looked the same as when he had left it the sense of order was gone, replaced by a quiet kind of anarchy that was bleeding through the gaps in the woodwork and causing rot in places. Was it that the Templars were getting careless without their leader there to point them in the right direction? 

Perhaps. Though it was more likely to do with the state of affairs there anyway. 

Haytham turned his gaze to the road, his eyes piercing as he focused on a young woman hurrying along and trying her best not to draw attention to herself. He watched her calmly, ignoring the way she looked guiltily in his direction before disappearing into a house. The American people were becoming restless- it was only a matter of time before the British grip on the land would start to slip. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Charles,” he greeted cordially as the dark haired man stepped towards him. More lines were carved into his old friend’s face, and for a moment Haytham was startled by it. Had it really been this long? Long enough for Charles Lee to start looking old? His companion strode forward like a dog would to its master, the same hopeful look of approval in his eyes. Haytham had once found it engaging and a little amusing- but now all he felt was irritated by it. “What are you doing out here?”

“Could ask you the same question, sir.” Charles looked across the expanse of snow to the house and let a wide grin split his face. “Surveying your handiwork?”

“Mmm.” Haytham glanced at Charles, and then followed his line of sight. He could still see the blood. If he was a younger man it would have made him shudder, but now- now he had seen enough blood to think nothing of it.

Charles had noticed his mood, he could tell, and the younger man was trying his best to rally his superior. “Everything went according to plan, didn’t it? It went without a hitch.” 

“Except for the arrival of the assassin,” Haytham replied smoothly. 

Charles twitched violently as though a particularly large fly had bitten him. “Yes, well,” he said with a curled nose, “it’s a good thing I was on the roof at the time too. I had a feeling Dobbs would let us down.” 

“The Assassin surprised him with a tomahawk,” Haytham replied coldly, “I would like to see you walk away from that intact.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that-”

“I know exactly what you meant.” Haytham sighed and tried his best to stand straight. His old wound still smarted from time to time, and the cold was not helping it. “But as you say, it went…according to plan.” The assassin had brought back stark memories of his father, and Haytham did not appreciate dwelling on the past. Though he could not help some of them; memories stole back to him without warning and sent his head reeling. Another sign of his age? He hoped to God not. “In fact, you could say that boy helped us, in a way. Now the British are on the hunt for him, and not you.” He offered Charles a thin smile at his words. “You should be praising him.” 

Charles scoff sounded like a disgruntled horse. “Hardly.” Haytham chuckled wryly, but said little else. 

Charles seemed to realise that his superior was not in the mood to talk, and so contented to watch with him as the clouds finally broke and the snow hurtled down in a fierce, gambolling rush. The town crier was now calling out news of the Assassin boy’s last known whereabouts and how he may have been in disguise. Haytham smirked. The boy had bribed the crier. Interesting. He clearly knew more about survival than he seemed to at first glimpse. He tried to shake off the strange feeling of pride that welled up within him. 

Charles was listening too, and after a moment asked quietly, “is it him? Your son?”

Haytham looked at him and nodded. “Yes, I think it may well be,” he said. 

“What are you going to do about it?”

Haytham frowned. “If he gets in our way, I will get him hunted down and killed. I’ll go after him myself if necessary.” 

He ignored Charles’s incredulous look. He was speaking with the words of the First Colonial Grand Master Templar, but whether they were the same words Haytham Kenway would speak was another matter. He couldn’t deny that on seeing that shape, clad in animal skins and savage as the weather that had swirled around him, something had stuck in his throat; a peculiar sense that the blood pounding through the youngster’s veins was the same as his own had overcome and momentarily blinded him. But it was a pill quickly swallowed, and a blindfold quickly cast off. The boy was standing in his way, the Order’s way, and that could not be tolerated. He raised a brow pointedly at Charles, noting his shock with slight amusement. “You expect me to have gone running to him, arms wide open in welcome?” he said, brow raised.

“I thought there might have been some…reluctance.” 

“Not at all. An Assassin is an Assassin no matter its bloodline.” Haytham said with more conviction than he felt. He then focused back on more pressing matters. “How many dead?”

“That’s what I came to tell you about. There are three dead, sir, but many more injured. There is one man of interest that survived, but…” Charles trailed off. 

“Go on.” Haytham prompted.

“He says he saw me fire the gun.” Charles turned away. “His name is Sam Maverick, and he is telling everyone he meets about the man not in British uniform that started it all.”

“No one will believe him,” Haytham said offhandedly. “He was shot a few hours ago. He’s still in shock. There’s nothing to worry about.” He then walked past Charles and towards the beckoning warmth of the Green Dragon Tavern. Though the company was usually unsavoury and too bawdy for his liking, the promise of food and drink was becoming more and more tempting the longer he remained out in the cold. He could hear Charles trotting after him in the snow, and smirked. Even after all these years, Charles never changed. The very thought was thrown roughly out of his head with what his friend said next. 

“I killed him.” 

Haytham stopped dead. “What?” he breathed.

“He needed to be silenced, so I killed him. Earlier this morning. The family will think he died of his wound.” Charles sounded confused, questioning- as though he had been expecting a jovial clap on the back and a ‘well done Charles’. 

Haytham turned back, a chill stealing through him that had nothing to do with the snow. He stood silently, an immovable shadow in the centre of the street, and then he spoke. “You killed him for no reason other than your own fear,” he said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Dead. 

“Haytham, I-”

“He would not have been listened to, Charles.” He walked towards him slowly, trying to contain the anger brewing within him. “How old was he?” 

Charles’s eyes grew wide. “Seventeen,” he said weakly. 

“Seventeen!” Haytham exploded. Charles backed off as Haytham snapped, “You were scared of a seventeen year old boy? He would have done nothing, Charles! He would have wailed like a pup then silenced by ignorance! You do not kill civilians!” 

“I thought that was the point of yesterday! To kill civilians!” Charles fought back. “You were quite content in killing the Assassin, but these people are different?!”

“It was to cause panic!” Haytham argued. “They were innocents- necessary sacrifices for the Order to be maintained! But that boy should not have died!” 

Charles’s expression darkened. “You have been away for far too long. Did the sun do something to your head? Or maybe it was your past coming back to bite?” It was a step too far.

Haytham wheeled on Charles with an ice cold fury. Before Charles could fully anticipate what was going on, he was being thrown violently against the nearest wall. No one came to help. Haytham bore down on him, blood as cold as the snow around him as he snarled, “How dare you speak to me like that! Friend or not, I am your superior Charles, and you would do well to remember it!” 

Charles stared back at him with a kind of hollow fear Haytham had seen reflected in the eyes of many he’d killed. He then realised that he had engaged his hidden blade without realising, and it was now resting snugly underneath his friend’s chin. The red film that had previously clouded his judgement vanished in an instant. Charles wet his lips anxiously. “I-I’m sorry,” he said shakily, “I spoke out of t-turn, just please…calm down…”

Haytham steadily removed his hand and disengaged the blade, but his eyes still burned with anger. Charles was nothing but a dog off his chain for too long; he had begun to make his own decisions through his own arrogance at his master’s absence. That was to change, starting now. Charles breathed a sigh of relief as he was released, and though the brightness in his eyes had dimmed, it still remained there at the back, waiting until what had just occurred dissolved into nothing more than an old, vague memory. “Maybe you’re right,” Haytham relented, “maybe the boy had to die.”

Maybe Charles was also right when speaking of his past returning; not harming innocents was a rule of the Creed, and Haytham could remember it being drummed into him as a child. Was it so wrong to want that? To have both sides unite? He supposed, with a heavy sigh, it probably was. “Come, let’s get back to the others,” he said, turning away and walking back to the welcoming doors of the Green Dragon. “I’m sure you are as cold as I am.”   
Charles nodded fervently and followed, still with a hand to his throat as though he expected Haytham to attack him again. 

Haytham allowed Charles to go before him and took one last glance outside at the snow that fell with a sense of urgency, and sighed. With the appearance of the Assassin, his flesh and blood, it was to be a very long winter indeed.


End file.
